At night, they’d park under the overpass and watch the headlights blur past. Baby Gemini would lean their head on Ricky’s shoulder and whisper, “Which one of us do you like better? The one who laughs too loud, or the one who counts your freckles when you sleep?”
“There is no other you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “But next time, bring both of you to the diner. The waitress makes good pie.” baby gemini and ricky
“You have to hit it,” Baby Gemini said, not looking up. “Right here, on the side. It’s an Aries machine. Needs violence.” At night, they’d park under the overpass and
That was how it began: Ricky, the only child who learned early how to be alone, and Baby Gemini, who was already two people in a thrift-store coat. “But next time, bring both of you to the diner